


Dragged

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drag Queens, Drunk Sandor is drunk, F/M, Farce, Fluff and Humor, Gen, He's also a numpty, In Vino Veritas, M/M, Oberyn's Silk Shirt Lives!, Sandor is a geek, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tyrion and Varys are the Westerosi mafia, Ubiquitous Pentoshi Takeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:07:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: Loras and Renly are getting married. Hurrah! For their joint stag-do, they're taking their rugby mates to Tyrion and Varys' swanky new drag club, the Pink Pussycat. Sandor doesn't want to be there. Not his scene. Too much glitter, not enough death metal. Until, of course, he espies a beautiful young drag queen called Sansa.Who isn't a drag queen. Not that Sandor actually realises that, though. Shenanigans ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnowWhiteKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowWhiteKnight/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to _SnowWhiteKnight_ , who, when pressed, gave me one of her random plot bunnies to stroke.

* * *

 

 

_sandy!!!!_

 

**You do not get to call me Sandy.**

 

_beric calls u sandy :P:P:P!!!!_

 

**I like Beric. You are a skinny arsed twat with a Baratheon fetish.**

 

_u n beric wuld be super yum 2getha :D:D:D:D can i wacth????!!!_

 

**Piss off, Tyrell.**

 

_u luv me :D:D:D:D u cumin on stag nite???? All rugby bois r cumin!!!!_

 

_not lik u got any1 better 2 do_

 

**You’re a little shit.**

 

_beric said ud cum. now im thinkin of u an beric cummin ;P;P;P;P_

 

**FUCK’S SAKE LORAS.**

 

_i will stop sayin u an beric r gay 4 eachotha if u cum_

 

**You conniving little fuckwit. Fine. Whatever.**

 

_ur 2 easy 2 wind up lol!!!!_

 

**Which shitty seventh circle of the Stranger’s Realm you dragging us?**

 

_T &V’s new club. EEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! l8rz babe <3<3<3<3 _

 

* * *

 

The address indicates, in one fell swoop, what sort of night he’s in for.

 

 _The Pink Pussycat, Knacker’s Yard, Flea Bottom_.

 

Just right slap bang in the middle of the red light district, but then given this is Tyrion and Varys’ place, nowhere else would make sense.

 

It’ll be gay as shit. He knows that. Yet another night in a gay pub/club because they belong to T&V, telling a surprising amount of blokes that he’s only here for the booze and not the cock, before slinking home alone while several of his associates get very very laid.

 

Obviously he’s not expecting to meet someone, ever. He’s six foot and a half of sulking, brooding malevolence. He’s got a scar the size of Tarth on the side of his face. The people he goes out with - only two of whom he calls friends, and only because they refuse to allow him not to - tend towards the good looking. When at one end of the spectrum you’ve got pretty little Jon Snow, and the other end you have Oberyn, Dorne’s Sexiest Man, and you go via Bronn and Jaime (not together), Theon and Robb (sometimes together if they’re stoned enough), Loras and Renly (inseparably and sickeningly together), Sam for the chasers, and Gendry for the size queens, and Ramsay for the masochists (just don’t tell Bolton that, because Sandor wants to murder him), Stannis for people who want to be spanked with a fucking dictionary, and Davos who just urges people to hug him by standing there and smiling gently, of course Sandor’s the ugly one. And Beric. But then Beric was pretty handsome before his series of unfortunate accidents, and his scars are more rakish and piratical.

 

And, if the Gods really fucking hate him, Rhaegar Targaryen turns up because he’s part of the rugby team management these days.

 

Someone once said that if Rhaegar and Oberyn shagged, the world would end in boiling lava, dragons rising from their bone yards, and a collective orgasm so shattering that life would cease to exist in a mere nanosecond.

 

Thankfully, possibly not for Oberyn who’d love to give him a go, Rhaegar remains devoted to Lyanna Stark. Who regularly destroys everyone in drinking competitions.

 

The rugby team can be split in three. The ones who want to shag Rhaegar, the ones who’re desperate for some hot MILF action with Lyanna, and the ones who’d like to be in that sandwich. Four, actually, because thankfully for everyone involved, Snow’s Stark side overrides his Targaryen side enough for him to not want to screw his parents.

 

Shoving his hands in his pockets, wishing he’d brought a scarf to wrap around his face - cold makes his scars ache, even if fire created them - he slumps towards the address that Loras texted. A miserable, freezing, fucking annoying evening, with the faint hint of sleet making his always untidy hair a dripping mess, damp soaking into the bottoms of his jeans.

 

Apparently, according to dress codes, he shouldn’t be wearing jeans and he’ll be thrown out. To be perfectly honest, Sandor’s in the sort of mood where he’d love them to just fucking try.

 

A shadow lengthens, turns into a man with a cigarette in his hand. Old school Oberyn is old school when it comes to tobacco, but then he’ll probably fuck himself to death rather than die of lung cancer.

 

“Ah, Clegane. How tight your trousers are tonight. How shall I concentrate upon the entertainment?”

 

“Martell.”

 

They nod companionably. Even in the chill of winter Oberyn’s insists on wearing silk unbuttoned to his navel. How his nipples don’t fall off no one’s quite sure.

 

He doesn’t mind Oberyn. The man’s curiously good company when you get past the original ‘I don’t know you, ergo I must fuck you’ vibe; amusing and passionate about things in turn. While the youngsters go off in their mad circle, Sandor, Martell, Beric, Stannis and Davos usually sit about reminiscing about the Old Times.

 

Even if Sandor’s only mid thirties, he feels fucking ancient.

 

“What’s this place?” Nodding towards the pink-lit doorway. From here, if he squints, it looks like a vagina. If a vagina were a club in Flea Bottom, obviously, which considering the reputation of the hookers around there could well be the case.

 

“Has no one told you?”

 

No. Sandor just got sent a text with an address and a dress code and nothing else

 

“Tonight, my Hound, your horizons shall expand. Perhaps you shall espy a most beautiful lady, gorgeously fashioned, tall and wonderful, and yet, when you make love to her, you find something a little extra than required, yes?”

 

“Fuck’s sake, you cryptic Dornish cunt.”

 

Lips brush his ear. Oberyn’s not short, but he’s got to go up on his toes to do that. “Drag queens.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They’ve claimed a noisy table or two in the VIP area, and he and Martell are late arriving.

 

“Sandy’s here!” Loras hiccups, sways, launches himself over the table and pounces on his victim. For someone who’s smaller than him, Tyrell’s a bloody heavy lump. Knight of bastard Flowers infuckingdeed. He’s more like a bag of spuds, or onions, or whatever. “Sandy! Wow, your jeans are so tight, babe. Babe! Tight jeans! Look!”

 

His to be husband shakes his head. “He’s been at the champagne. Babe, put Clegane down. He’ll break you.”

 

“With his huge thick manly cock?”

 

“Isn’t my huge thick manly cock enough?”

 

They’ve always been like this; Renly pretty chill about Loras flirting hugely with everyone. Lots of calling each other ‘babe.’ Sneaky handjobs under the tables. They’ve been together more than half of their lives, and know each other so intimately that sometimes they are just merely extensions of an amorphous blob that calls itself Lenly. Roras if they’re drunk.

 

“Yours is the bestest of huge manly cocks, babe.” A peck on Sandor’s cheek, nowhere near the scarred side, a quick squeeze of the Clegane arse, before Loras wriggles and giggles away to snog his fiance.

 

Stannis, unfortunately sitting at Renly’s right, pinches his nose with a frustrated hand, grinds his teeth for good measure. Even Davos’ attentiveness and caring pats to a tense shoulder don’t break the embarrassed scandalized squirm of the middle brother.

 

Sandor goes to move, but a hand grabs at his belt, tugging.

 

“What?”

 

Oberyn’s staring, transfixed, in that ‘I espy someone I have to nail’ manner of his.

 

“Who is the beautiful boy with the lovely face?”

 

“Which one?” That probably describes seven or eight people just at that table.

 

“Green shirt.”

 

The lights make it awkward since they’re not actually there to illuminate but create atmosphere. Squinting, he eventually identifies the pale young man trying to edge away from where Renly and Loras are basically making third base. There’s hands in trousers and everything. Shit.

 

“A Tyrell.”

 

“The one that doesn’t sleep with people,” rumbles a thankfully welcome voice. “Pint, Sandy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You, Oby?” Beric likes shortening names. It’s a compulsion.

 

“The usual. Who is the boy?”

 

“Willas. He’s untouchable mate. Many have tried. Many have failed. He’s pure and good and...bloody hell, this is making you even more determined, isn’t it?”

 

“A challenge thrills my blood, strengthens my sinews, caresses my cock.” Oberyn unbuttons yet another button, rolls his sleeves up, sets his sights upon the slender and nervy-breedy young man. “Wish me luck, for I am going in.”

 

And he does. He’s over the table, elegantly avoiding drinks, settling between the rutting mess that is Roras and Willas Tyrell who blinks, huge-eyed, at the smirking Dornishman who descends into his personal space.

 

“He’s got no chance.” Beric’s hand rests companionably upon Sandor’s shoulder. “Whisky with the beer?”

 

“Fuck yeah. Give us an hour, then we can piss off home.”

* * *

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The emcee is a curvy woman in full male evening dress, complete with neat facial hair, and Theon makes a sound like a dying squid while muttering something about his sister. “Welcome to the _Pussycat_. Well, more cat and less pussy-”

 

The cheer deafens, and Willas Tyrell leaps a foot into the air only to be soothed by Oberyn’s lecherous hand upon his thigh. He frowns, looks down at the fingers creeping northwards, and his expression is such that Martell actually stops groping.

 

“Let me introduce for you this evening, the stars of our show - Pussycats: Assemble!”

 

Beric makes a pleased geeky noise. “Wonder if there’s one dressed as Hulk.”

 

“Fucking weird taste in people, you cunt.”

 

“The Hulk’s too tall.”

 

It fucks with Sandor’s head a little. Men dressed as women, basically cosplaying as women dressed as women.

 

Thankfully, they’ve split down the usual lines. The younger lot (and Bronn, who’s basically a teenager in the body of a man who refuses to believe he’s forty, and Oberyn who refuses to leave Willas Tyrell’s side because he wants to shag someone everyone’s convinced is unshaggable) drink cocktails the colour of appendix, roar, molest each other in that faux-gay way that a lot of rugby boys do. Apart from Robb and Theon, who pretend they’re just being mates, but really they’ll go and do each other in the bathroom before the evening ends.

 

Stannis sighs.

 

“I cannot believe that I’ve been dragged here just because my brother insists upon getting married.”

 

“Strippers’d be worse.”

 

“And how would you know, Davos?”

 

“When my Matty got wed, we went to a strip club. Lovely girls-”

 

Sandor and Beric’s eyebrows try and escape from the top of their heads.

 

“One of them’s doing medicine at KLU, and another’s a single mum. Had a great chat with ‘em.”

 

Ah, the world remains normal. Being Davos means having calm and fatherly conversations with girls who are usually paid by men who look like him to get their tits out. He probably gave them Dad-like good advice, and a kiss on the cheek, and made them feel fucking fantastic that someone wasn’t there to sexualise them to a ridiculous extent. He’ll do the same with the drag queens, obviously. Checking how they are, if they need anything, if everything’s okay. Considering Davos works in Tyrion’s flagship pub as his bar manager, he probably had input into the inventory of the club.

 

“Olyvar was so worried about Black Widow’s catsuit being a bit tight, but he’s doing well. Good lad. That’s Satin,” he says, waving at a boy almost as pretty as Jon Snow  who’s made up as a really striking woman, but also dressed, fucking confusingly, as a female Bucky Barnes. This Satin sees Davos, beams, waves back enthusiastically. They’ve got the metal arm down pat, and the short skirted female version of a Red Army uniform. “Lovely boy, horrible background though-”

 

“Hang on.” Beric leans in, fascinated. “You know everyone?”

 

“Aye. I’ve worked here a few times on busy nights.”

 

“I loathe it when you work here,” Stannis snips. “I prefer having a quiet drink rather than this ridiculousness.”

 

“You don’t have to come just because I’m not at the _Mayflower_ sometimes.”

 

Furious blue Baratheon eyes burn into Davos. “Why would I go to the _Mayflower_ when you aren’t there? The real ale selection is appalling, and the food mediocre since Hot Pie quit. At least I can have some vaguely decent conversation.”

 

His choices obviously have nothing to do with Stannis being in love with Davos. Nothing at all to do with not having the testicles to admit that he’s a) up for settling down with a man he’s been friends with for the past two decades and b) fancying the arse of the same man he sent to prison for six months back in the late ‘90s for a bit of smuggling duty free booze into Westeros to sell on to pub chains.

 

“I’m pleased to see Hawkeye’s basically in the proper outfit, if more cleavagey than usual.”

 

“Hawkeye couldn’t be any more fucking gay if he tried.” Hotpants is a thing for this Hawkeye, and a boob window.

 

“He could be Aquaman,” Beric reminds him. “Though I like the new version.”

 

“You just want to fuck a Dothraki.”

 

“Too tall, Sandy.” Pausing, he spies someone in the crowd. “Speaking of tall-”

 

“Brienne!” Loras explodes across the table once more, narrowly missing kicking Theon and Robb in their now conjoined faces. “Oh my God, you look amaaaaazing!”

 

“They keep thinking I’m a drag queen.” She’s in heels, making her taller than even Sandor, and has the most insane legs. Skirts that are sensible length on other women merely graze mid-thigh. Of course, the drag queens are far more primped, and prettied, and have fewer bruises on their legs from scrums.

 

“She almost punched someone who put their hand down her dress. It was beautiful.” Jaime’s confident enough to not care that he’s the short one; to be honest he admits he’s well into Brienne in heels. “Wench, I told you you look gorgeous, but you seem to think that because I’m married to you I’m biased or lying or something.”

 

Theon surfaces, stubble-rashed and dazed with something more than Robb Stark’s tongue and booze. “There’s a drag queen who looks like Brienne, but, like, hot and shit.”

 

“It is Brienne you twat.” Robb, just as stoned, beams goofily. “Wanna climb her legs.”

 

Stannis, ever the gentleman, stands, ushers Brienne into sitting at the grown up’s table, stiffly disappears to fetch her a tonic water and Jaime’s non-alcoholic beer.

 

“Just a head’s up,” Lannister calls over to Beric. “Evil Hobbit’s here.”

 

Or: the entire reason that Dondarrion doesn’t like men over five feet eight.

 

“I’ll...just go and see if he’s alright,” he murmurs, cheeks reddening, scanning the club, disappearing into the melee of patrons.

 

Jaime nicks his seat, smug as fuck.

 

“He’s not here, is he?”

 

“No. I just wanted his seat.”

* * *

 

 

The Pussycat Avengers assemble, do their thing. They’re pretty bloody good, and Sandor finds himself almost having this alien concept of fun. That normally means rugby, or the pub with Beric and Oberyn, or watching sci-fi, or arguing with Jon Snow and Sam about _Lord of the Rings_ , or listening to heavy metal music with his sub woofer turned up to eleven. Fun doesn’t normally mean drag queens, lots of glitter, and people watching.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He looks up. So does everyone else.

 

Theon wolf whistles, is smacked across the back of the head by Robb, but the enthusiastic reaction is for...fucking good reason.

 

Sandor’s never thought of himself as the sort of bloke to be attracted to other blokes. He’s wondered idly about it for all of ten seconds because most of his associates, and his two friends, are otherwise sexualitied or whatever the term is these days. He’s always thought that if he were to sleep with another man, it’d be someone like Beric; he can have a laugh with him, he’s not breakable, apparently stupendously good at blowjobs, likes taking it up the arse. That sort of thing.

 

This person blows everyone else out of the whole fucking pond.

 

She (he) is tall, and made even taller by immaculately shiny black high heels. Legs like that should be illegal. An arse made by angels, a body fashioned by the Gods themselves. Tumbling curling red hair, blue eyes that remind him, most vividly, of the sea off the Lannisport coast - at least before they started dumping all that nuclear shit in it. White teeth, red lips, all that make up stuff accentuating the sort of face that makes even the straightest of men (Sandor) curious. All wrapped up in bottle green silk and gold lace, with ribbons, and tits, and-

 

“Hey Sansa.” Robb raises his bottle of beer, hiccups, ignores Theon’s teeth nibbling along his earlobe.

 

“Hi Robb. I didn’t know you were here today.” This Sansa goggles at Greyjoy, who gives the most shit-eating smirk and dives back into mauling his not-boyfriend’s extremities.

 

“Roras stag night.”

 

“Tyrion never said.”

 

Her (his) voice sounds fantastically realistic. Sweet, and husky, like birdsong.

 

“Would anyone like any drinks?”

 

Sandor mutters about a beer, and a whisky, and tries to stop staring at the glory of the creature before him.

 

She stares back, wide-eyed, seemingly transfixed for some reason. No idea why.

 

To some people, rare people, Sandor’s really attractive. He’s rough, and masculine, and has amazing muscle definition. The broody thing that Jon Snow does? Clegane does tenfold. He’s angsty black metal, and torment, and like some sort of warrior-poet who writes using his fists rather than his vocabulary.

 

He’s also got a massive cock, but doesn’t broadcast that lest Gendry’s size queens turn their attentions to him instead.

 

“I’ll be back. With your drink. Ser.”

 

“Not a fucking ser.”

 

If he’s a ser, then Sansa’s a fucking lady.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bitches.” A miasma of evil descends.

 

Oh fuck. Ramsay.

 

Sandor’s on his eight pint, and rather drunk. Considering he told himself he’d stay an hour, the reason for remaining (red hair, legs that go on for years) sees him ordering drinks from Sansa on a very regular basis. Every time she (he. Fuck) comes back with a pint and a shot glass, they end up just gawping at each other for too long. Part of him hopes, beyond hope, that maybe it’s a mutual attraction. Not likely, but a man can dream can’t he?

 

He’s unsure what to think. If he were sober Sandor could possibly process more easily. He’s not homophobic; he just didn’t think gay would happen to him. Wouldn’t it have hit earlier in life? Now, his thoughts are a soup of ‘what the actual fuck’ness, sloshing about in his head like a bilge in a ship.

 

Sansa is incredible. There’s no denying that. Sansa has a penis, because she’s a drag queen. However, Sansa is also feminine enough as to throw heterosexuality out of the window. And what does a bloke even do with another cock? Isn’t two a waste? How does he even fuck another man? He’s aware of the logistics, but the process itself is something he’s never really explored.

 

“Evening Ramsay.” Beric smiles in that way that he does, all warm and slightly lustful, when faced with Bolton.

 

The tables are quieter now; some are dancing, some are drinking, some are having bathroom sex like they always do. Willas, who can’t dance because of some accident, doesn’t do sex, and isn’t drinking, keeps trying to encourage Oberyn to go and have fun. Martell, in turn, can’t quite understand why someone isn’t jumping at the chance to sleep with him, and is attempting to be extra charming to compensate. He’s murmuring ancient Valyrian poetry into Tyrell’s ear, but keeps having his pronunciation corrected by Willas who, according to Loras, is just about a professor of High Valyrian and Ancient Languages at King’s Landing University.

 

They’re holding hands though. It’s ridiculously vanilla for anything involving Oberyn, which serves him right. It’s good for the bugger to not get instant gratification for once.

 

Beric coughs, self-consciously, gets up, brushes off imaginary crumbs. “I’m just going to get a drink.”

 

“He’s not. He’s going to get fucked against a wall,” Ramsay adds, not at all helpfully.

 

Sandor doesn’t bother to point out the height issue with their plan, and knows the little cunt’s just winding him up for shits and giggles.

 

“Best get a step ladder.”

 

Ramsay gives Beric something akin to an ‘I will fuck your corpse for that’ murderglare.

 

Gollum has nothing on Bolton. If this were _Lord of the Rings_ , the Elves would come and save the arses of Men, then bugger off into the West as expected. Someone would throw Ramsay into the nearest volcano, and there’d be much rejoicing. Robb Stark could be Aragorn, or whatever shit, but Renly’d probably wrestle him for it. In baby oil. Because Theon (pervert) and Loras (other  pervert) demand such tribute. Brienne’s definitely Eowyn, so that makes Jaime Faramir.

 

If Robb’s Aragorn, Theon’s Arwen. That’s really fucked up. Maybe Renly and Loras are better suited then? Elves aren’t supposed to be colossal perverts. Sort of. Slightly perverted, sure, just not Theon. If perversion goes on a scale of Willas Tyrell (one, basically disinterested in anything physical) to Oberyn (shags the entire world), then Theon’s broken the chart, fucked it, and probably had a threesome with a pie graph for good measure.

 

Since Jon and Sam are Frodo and, well, the other Sam, Tyrion and Varys’ll have to be Thorin and the big gay blond elf (which describes the vast majority of the pointy eared cunts). What’s his face? Thranduil. That one.

 

Dress sense is about right. Bit too much purple, needs a really bloody good wig, but does like the pretty gowns. Sandor’s not even sure that T&V are fucking, or they’re just in some weirdly close relationship due to various life choices (Hot Pie buggering off, Shae marrying Tywin, Cersei trying to have them both killed in various drunken shenanigans every six months like clockwork. The usual Lannister bollocks that’s far too fucking drama-filled for any normal family says the man whose brother set fire to his head. Yeah. Like Sandor can talk.)

 

Sandor’s got himself pegged as the Witch King of Angmar, because he gets a mask. Brienne’d take him in a fight, so it all works out. If they were _Star Wars: The Force Awakens_ , she’d be a fucking brilliant Phasma. Obviously Sandor as Kylo Ren (see mask) and since they need some prissy ginger to be their Hux, and Beric’s too big, they’d have to borrow someone.

 

Sansa as Hux in the black First Order uniform.

 

Oh shit.

 

Not that she’s prissy though, but fuck. Fuck. The leather gloves, and the little hat, and maybe they could genderbend it all a bit if she wants to wear a dress rather than being a bloke? She’s probably a really pretty bloke. Maybe a bit like Robb Stark, but more elegant, less solid. They look quite similar, and Sandor doesn’t really know why.

 

This is the drink talking. Not him. Just the booze making him think inappropriately about a beautiful young drag queen that he wants to really cosplay with. Why didn’t they make her Natasha Romanova rather than that Olyvar kid with a red wig?

 

Catsuit. Thigh boots. Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.

 

“I brought you another drink.”

 

As if drawn to someone obsessively thinking of her, she reappears, tray in hand. Her legs go on for miles. Seriously. The heels don’t help. Or they do. After so much beer, it’s easier to get Sansa as female. She does it so well; it’s almost like she’s actually a woman.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“May I sit?” Manners and everything.

 

Across the club, someone’s got Loras and Theon in feather boas and heels, and they look a bit like the blonde one and the dark one from ABBA. Apparently it’s time for karaoke, and therefore time for Sandor to commit hari-kiri with a blunt object. Fuck karaoke. Fuck it in its ear.

 

“Yeah. If you want.” She might keep him safe from Loras’ appalling singing. 

 

She does, settles into Beric’s chair and crosses her legs (longest legs ever, he swears, longer than Brienne’s even, like...a giraffe made human, but insanely gorgeous) at the ankle. Tugs her short skirt a little more over her thighs that are the softness of whipped ice cream and just as tasty. Gives him a tiny, tremulous smile.

 

She’s...classy.

 

“I can’t believe Robb didn’t say you were all coming tonight.”

 

“Know him?” He sinks half his pint and tries not to look at where the drapey bits of her dress show off really well-done cleavage. The urge to lay his head upon her breast and close his eyes is really bloody strong. That’s a lot of chicken fillets and contouring there. She looks comfy.

 

Not that Sandor knows about this shit, but every so often he gets RuPaul’s _Drag Race_ inflicted on him by various drunk friends. Usually Loras. Who isn’t his friend, just an annoying skinny twat with a penchant for stilettos and dressing up as Dr. Frank-n-furter from the _Rocky Horror Show_ every Hallow’s End, who happens to gatecrash the flat sometimes.

 

Sansa’s expression flickers, confusion reigning for some reason. “Yes, he’s my-”

 

“There you are!” Tyrion lurks from below eye-level, the menacing wanker. He wouldn’t be, but since he’s probably the _consigliere_ of the Westerosi Mafia - Varys probably is the Godfather/mother of the Westerosi Mafia, because he’s terrifying in the sort of way that will have you ritually put in concrete shoes by handsome blond boys dressed in nothing but leather hotpants and jack boots - these things need to be considered. “Are you taking your break?”

 

Sansa nods, fiddling with the hem of her dress. “Is that okay, Mr. Lannister?”

 

“Course it is, sweetheart. You’re safe with him.” Nodding towards Sandor.

 

Probably because he’s straight, and Sansa’s a bloke - albeit the most gorgeous bloke in Westeros, bar none, and definitely the best looking woman he’s ever encountered - so yeah. Sansa’s safe from lecherous hands on her long long legs, and spectacular arse, and amazing waist. Tiny tiny waist, all curving into flaring hips and up to those impressive breasts.

 

He downs the rest of his pint as Tyrion’s dragged off by that...fabric one. Chintz? Saffron? To deal with some sort of drag-gy crisis. Grabs Beric’s neglected bottle of real ale. Downs that, and promises he’ll buy another one to make up for the temerity of nicking a mate’s drink.

 

“I like your hair,” he finds himself mumbling. “S’it real?”

 

Sansa gives him another of those perturbed looks.

 

Sandor and flirting have never been friends. They’ve skirted about each other for three and a half decades, and usually never speak. If they do, one of them says something ridiculous, and usually drunkenly, and flirting or Sandor decide that they never want anything to do with each other again. Not that he does go and try and chat up anyone. The face, the size, the temper, the general surrounding of better-looking and interesting friends - no one looks at him with any interest apart from ‘he’s massive, got to have a big cock, and we can’t see his face in the dark, so let’s fuck.’

 

“I don’t dye it?” she ventures.

 

“S’really long. And pretty.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re pretty.”

 

Flirting arches an eyebrow at him, sighs, shakes its anthropomorphised head with disgust.

 

“Sorry. Shit.”

 

“It’s okay. It reall-”

 

“Why’re you spending your break with me? Shouldn’t you be...I dunno. Stuff. Doing shit. Fucking make up, or like...what do you do? Backstage? I’ve never been here before, see. I don’t know what happens. Just that it’s all fucking confusing, like you are. All legs. Beautiful legs. Sorry. Fuck’s sake. And the voice is really good.”

 

Movement, and silk, and a bare Dornish chest. He’d forgotten about the audience of two at the next table. Oberyn insinuates himself over, crouches next to them, rubs a hand along Sandor’s thigh. It is weird, being touched like that. Fuck knows where that hand’s been, though it’s not sticky or anything so that’s really good. Otherwise he’d have someone’s come all over his jeans, and he’d have to burn them, and they’re decent jeans, these are.

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“You are quite loud when you internal monologue, dear one.”

 

“Fuck off, prick.”

 

“And rather abusive. Do you wish to go home? Shall I telephone a taxi?”

 

“Why’re the pretty ones men?” The table looks comfortable. He puts his face - his scars - on the chill wood and granite artisan surface that no doubt costs half a month’s wage. “S’not fair.”

 

“He thinks-?” Sansa’s sweet, perfect voice, that’s bloody amazing for a man.

 

“Ah. Yes. He does.”

 

“Dunno how to suck cock. S’all gay and shit. Don’t want to. Fuck cocks. In the arse.”

 

“I shall seek Beric to deal with this as he is rather stronger than I. Will you guard him, Sansa?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Martell retreats to find the big ginger cunt, though he’s a good cunt, and Sandor sighs, looking at Sansa. Her hair falls in a cascade of chestnut, like a waterfall but more hair-y. And redder. But not ginger. No. That’s auburn. Autumn. More words beginning with ‘a’.

 

Before, Sandor used to be a belligerent drunk. He’d get into fights. A lot of fights. Swear. Intimidate other people. Get banned from pubs. Phone Gregor in Harrenhal and tell him that he’s glad that his big brother’s in jail, and that he hopes he gets syphilis and his cock should fall off. Place unlikely but oddly successful bets on certain sporting occasions. Listen to melancholy emo bollocks that he pretends he’s got no idea about, but it’s the sort of twattery Jon Snow adores. Jon Snow is a stupid pretty eyeliner wearing numpty.

 

Despite everything, Jon Snow’s really bloody straight.

 

“Why’re you so pretty, girl? Why’re you here? Could be with the others, havin’ fun. I’m drunk and want to punch shit. You ever want to punch shit? Everyone’s in love. I’m not in love. I’m a fucking ugly cunt with a fucking shit personality and fucking fucked up scars. Fuck!”

 

No, now Sandor embraces self-pitying pathetic drunk.

 

“It’s really nice of you to say,” she ventures, pink around the cheeks. Sandor decides he must, one day, lick Sansa’s blush and see if she tastes like those flush-skinned apples in the supermarket. “I just- I wanted to talk to you, if that’s okay?”

 

“Fucking boring, I am.”

 

“Robb says you’re a good person. He thinks you’re pretty cool. He said that. I don’t use the word cool, but Robb - you know Robb. Him and Theon with their bro speak.”

 

“Twats.”

 

“And,” and she creeps forward a little, silk slick over the faux leather chair seat. “I don’t want to punch anything. I don’t really drink much, just a glass of wine sometimes.”

 

“Ladyfuckinglike.” It makes him ache. Sansa’s a perfect woman, for a man. It’s wrong, and bollocks, because Sansa’s got them. Bollocks.

 

“Also, you’re not ugly.”

 

He looks up at that, eyes trying to focus properly. She’s all fuzzy; red and gold and green like a karma chameleon. A beautiful chameleon who changes to look like a woman rather than pretending to be a leaf or whatever chameleons do. For a moment he wonders if Sansa’s tongue is approximately the same length as her body, or if her eyes can move independently, but then crushing disappointment descends and Sandor groans into his arms, straightens back up, feels the beer sluicing about the gunnels.

 

“Am ugly.”

 

“You’re interesting,” she says, rather firmly. “Anyone can be handsome, but it’s the person beneath that counts.” For a moment, just a brief and tiny nanosecond though, since Sandor’s pissed out of his skull it feels about five months instead, Sansa looks terribly, upsettingly, sad.

 

He finds himself caught between wanting to scoop her up and make it all better by punching shit for her, and being totally blown away by how beautiful she is, even then.

 

“You know fuck all about me.”

 

“I know bits. Like your position,” and Sandor goes dizzy thinking of the positions he and Sansa could get up to, even including additional penises, “in the rugby squad because I’ve seen you play a few times, and how you’re a personal trainer at Bronn’s gym. Um. You like dogs, and heavy metal music. You’re loyal, and kind, even if you’re quite grumpy.”

 

Shit. She does know stuff about him. How’d she know stuff about him?

 

“I know something about you.” He holds up a finger.

 

“What about me?”

 

She’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Amazing. Best legs in Westeros. No, on the whole of Planetos.

 

“I’m not gay. Everyone else is gay. ‘Part from Jon Snow. He’s swimming in cunt. Sam. Gendry’s not either. Bronn’s fucking dodgy. Uh. Loads of us aren’t, right? We don’t do cocks. But I’ddoyourcock.” Words spill out helplessly, because Sandor’s finally reached that level of drunkenness that means extraneous male genitalia doesn’t actually matter, as long as it’s attached to Sansa and no one else. Oberyn’s always said that the difference between a straight bloke and a bi one is two pints, but for Sandor it’s a fuckload more, with additional whisky, and is only possible because the most glorious woman(ish) in Westeros has told him that he’s not ugly, he’s interesting.

 

Just words. They’re just syllables in a certain order, but they get to him, grab his throat, shake him around a bit. How come the one person who gets it, gets him, who understands that being attractive isn’t the be all and end all - and Sandor muzzily knows he’s a hypocrite because if Sansa wasn’t so lovely he’d not be getting these urges - is this pretty drag queen? The Gods shit on him yet again, don’t they?

 

But then maybe that’s what he’s been waiting for his entire life? Maybe this is that moment that most people scoff at; love at first sight across a crowded drag club. Deep down, under layers of snarling and prickliness, Sandor tends towards a romanticness that he thinks emasculates him. He’s a big, ugly bastard, and big, ugly bastards don’t get to do the walks on the beach, the running into the sunset. That’s for the beautiful ones, like Loras, and Jaime. Brienne doesn’t count, she’s an anomaly in every fucking calculation in his head.

 

Maybe, his really rather drunk subconscious announces overly-smug, that if Brienne can get someone Jaime good looking to love her, you can, you daft bastard? Even if the person who loves him, and he’s years, decades in front now, going grey with Sansa on his arm in pretty dresses, turns out to have more testicles than are truly ideal?

 

Fingers brush his jaw, over the wrecked flesh. For someone unused to being touched so gently, Sandor reacts as expected. He freezes, goes to say something, then just collapses into the caress with a fairly wanton groan of absolute want. It means his face gets rather close to Sansa’s, and then his hand finds her shoulder, and her hair which is like satin - not Satin, that’d be fucked up - and then his mouth is against hers.

 

Fuck it, Clegane. Live a little. Never know you don’t like it ‘til you try.

 

Her soft plush lips taste a little of lemon lip balm; so warm and yielding under his rougher, crueller ones, her breath a tiny puff of air through her elegant nose. Of course, since Sandor’s drunk, they have a bit of an issue of which way heads tilt, and they sort of fumble about for a few seconds before he cups Sansa’s chin and gently maneuvers her into the correct position.

 

Kissing a man, he realises, is a lot like kissing a woman when the man in question makes a really fucking convincing woman. She ends up pressed bodily against him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, torso to torso. Those tits, those amazing fake tits, seem real as they smoosh into his pectorals. It’s the sort of kiss, and there’s not even tongues involved, just gently open but not sloppy lippiness, that should set off fireworks. Light candles. Have some sort of innuendo-laden special effects. Warmth trickles across his spine, prunes his lungs, and finally, eventually, they surface, gasping and rumpled. Her hands turn his hair into a tangled mess, fingers snagging. It’s a nice sort of grounding pain that brings Sandor back to where they are. S’good.

 

“Your chest.”

 

“Wha’?” Panting, dazed, he wonders what the fuck she’s on about.

 

“You’re so-” Fighting for the words, Sansa, and she seems as stunned as him, “muscly.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Mmm. All strong. Solid. Manly.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Maybe gay shit isn’t so bad? Maybe he’s just been latently homosexual his whole life and that’s why he’s never been able to create meaningful relationships with women? Of course Sandor’s brain screams that he’s never created meaningful relationships with men, unless it involves rugby and beer.

 

His brain is a treacherous fuckmongoose. As usual.

 

“Wanna come home with me?” It’s important. This. This kissing, and this gay shit, and Sansa. Sansa, the most beautiful woman in Westeros, who is a man, but it doesn’t matter. Apparently Ygritte, Jon Snow’s feminist girlfriend, says there’s loads of different sexualities that are classified, like...he flounders. Like millions of them. Maybe he’s just like Sansasexual. Maybe it’s that. “I got clean sheets on the bed, and we can get Pentoshi?.”

 

Something breaks in her expression, something shifts from stunned to warm, and Sansa brushes his cheek again, bumping over scars.

 

“Even if I’m a boy?”

 

He nods. He nods so hard that he almost gives himself whiplash.

 

“Even if I’m not a boy?”

 

Okay. That’s difficult to understand. He swims through the brain fog to try and find some sort of meaning. Maybe she’s...oh. Right.

 

“You’re both?”

 

A blink, a carefully contained sigh. “Sandor-”

 

“How drunk is he? I’m so sorry, Sansa. He’s an absolute menace...he’s drunk my beer, hasn’t he?” Large hands massage his shoulders; Beric’s rumbling really not fucking welcome right about now. Piss off you enormous ginger fucking twat. Bugger off. Dondarrion’s crashing his coming out party with the person he wants to come out and on and over for the next twenty or so years to start with, because people’ve married after bonding less, haven’t they? If he’s Sansasexual, he needs to put a ring on her finger and adore her forever and ever. He can learn how to love the cock. That’s what the internet’s for. Educating.

 

“Fuck off, twatwomble.”

 

Black leather and white silk lurk in his peripherals. Bolton and Martell, like some fucking Essosi Chorus in a comi-tragic play of his fucking existence.

 

“Mate, we should get you home.”

 

“Sansa’s coming.”

 

“He promised Pentoshi.”

 

“Does he still think-?”

 

“Yes, I’m trying to tell him, but-”

 

“Sansasexual,” he mumbles, hair across his face. Beric gently tidies it. Beric’s like someone’s Mum, and Davos their Dad. It’s nice. Weird as fuck, but nice.

 

“Sandor? I’m a gi-”

 

Bolton interrupts, obviously pissed off that his shagging time’s been eroded by Oberyn coming to fetch Beric. Good. Hopefully the little fucker didn’t get to come. Serves him right.

 

“She’s a woman, you moronic deep-fried crispy wonton faced bitch.”

 

Silence. Well, not really because Renly and Loras are singing the _Grease_ medley, and the club is packed full of drunk people having a fucking amazing time, but in their tiny corner of it all, there is nothing.

 

Sobriety is a bitch when it happens instantaneously. Metaphorical frozen oceans envelop his head, like he’s being waterboarded. The chill brings him back to himself mostly, making him actually understand what Ramsay’s said.

 

It echoes in his head, rolling about, flopping seal-ishly. Sansa’s a girl. She’s a beautiful girl, who just happens to be insanely tall, and lovely, and female, working as a waitress in a cocktail bar full of drag queens, and not possessing a cock. Unless it’s a vibrating one that’s ribbed for her pleasure, obviously. Or his. She can keep his, albeit still attached to Sandor, but they can negotiate her having full access whenever it’s required. She’s a woman. Oh fuck’s sake. It’s all okay, it’s fine, it’s alright. Just a shock when he’s prepared himself for her being male. Sandor’s not going to have to Google Cocksucking 101. He’s fine with the female anatomy, he’s got experience. He’s not going to make a complete twat of himself by fumbling about like a colossal virgin, scare Sansa off, be lonely forever because of his idiocy.

 

“Ramsay. So tactful.” Beric rubs his forehead, massages his temples. Even Dondarrion finds that little fucking Gollum a trial sometimes.

 

“Someone needed to say it, though it’d be hilarious if they’d made it to actual sex and Sansa didn’t have a dick. I’d be totally putting that on Youtube.”

 

“Again, I refer to my previous remark about tact, Ramsay.”

 

Sansa’s fingers touch Sandor’s. Her nails are painted gold; all shimmery and shiny pretty. Fascinated, he touches the polish. Pauses. Threads his fingers through hers. Her hand, soft-palmed, sits nicely in his, and the club around them disappears as she squeezes gently, smiling up delicately from under her tumbling russet mane.

 

Reality smashes in as Oberyn clears his throat. He’s antsy. He’s not got laid yet. “Ah, now this is solved, perhaps I may return to my sweet Willas?”

 

Beric looks over towards where Tyrell was last seen. “He’s not there, Oby.”

 

Martell pauses, breathes in through that patrician aquiline nose of his, and rummages in his back pocket for his phone. Considering how tight those trousers are, it’s a wonder anything actually can fit in there. He flicks through messages, before smirking rather filthily.

 

“Willas. Sweet boy. _Aōhon iksan se ñuhon iksā_.* Excuse me, my brothers, but I must away to a Tyrell who requires my presence for coffee and late night dining.” Fizzing with possibly fuckery, he bumps fists ironically with Beric and Sandor, kisses Sansa on the cheek, ignores Bolton, swaggers away. By the time Oberyn’s at the exit of the club, he’s wearing his shirt as a jacket rather than an actual garment that can actually button up if required.

 

High Valyrian. Pretentious tosspot.

 

Back to Sansa.

 

At some point Beric and Ramsay thankfully bugger off to complete their logistically impossible sexual escapade, leaving him and Sansa just watching each other quietly. Her eyelashes, long and sooty, sweep her cheekbones as she blinks, as she smiles, as he rubs his thumb over the softness of her skin below jangly metal bangles winding about her slender wrist.

 

She’s a woman. A beautiful ridiculously tall woman. Who doesn’t have a cock. She isn’t a man. She’s not a drag queen. She’s just Sansa. Just her. Warmth blossoms, bees buzz, spring happens, the world tilts back onto that far more sensible axis where Sandor won’t have to deal with manhandling another man’s penis. He isn’t gay. His fucking awful flirting didn’t put her off, and she’s coming back to his where they’ll eat spicy noodle dishes, talk, maybe get to know each other a bit. Maybe have sex. Maybe not. It’s not important. Or it is, just that this isn’t going to be one of those lights off quick shags he’s had with other women. This - whatever this connection is, and Sandor’s never felt this with anyone else in his entire life - promises something deeper, and meaningful, and special, and pure.

 

Yeah. Sandor Clegane.

 

He’s not gay. He’s just really fucking Sansasexual.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> * _I am yours and you are mine._


End file.
